


Enough

by doctorbuffypotterlock79



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2020-04-06 15:44:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19065661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorbuffypotterlock79/pseuds/doctorbuffypotterlock79
Summary: FINALE SPOILERS. Vanessa comforts Brooke after the finale.





	Enough

**Author's Note:**

> I just really needed to write this after the finale. Also, please note that this fic is not negative or disrespectful toward Yvie in any way. I do like Brooke better, but I like and respect Yvie and she deserved to win. I'm just a small bi who wants some Branjie hurt/comfort. Feedback and comments are always welcome!

Vanessa really wants to talk to him. It’s been less than a week since the finale aired and between the shows, the travel, and her sickness, she hasn’t had a moment yet to talk to him privately, without all them nosy hoes overhearing. 

It’s her first performance after her cold, and she’s still not in perfect health yet, so no one says anything when she ducks out early, going to wait for Brooke in his dressing room. She’s positive Brooke will worry and tell her she should go to bed, but she wants to talk to him right now, while the cold meds are kicking and she still has the energy. Brooke finally arrives, breathless and in drag, and she tells him to lock the door. 

Just like she predicted, Brooke immediately runs over to where she’s sitting on the couch, spewing out question after question about how she’s feeling. 

“I’m fine. Could a sick person twerk my ass like I just did? I don’t think so,” she waves off his concern. “Those cold meds are some good shit, Brooke,” she informs him, and they both laugh. Brooke plops down beside her on the couch, and Vanessa takes her chance. “I wanted to see how you were doing, actually. We haven’t really had time to talk, just the two of us, you know?” 

“What do you mean? I’m fine,” he says, confused. 

She sighs. “I mean with...you know. The finale. You doin’ okay?” 

He doesn’t say anything for a few seconds. Then, she watches him start to apply the mask and hide his feelings. “Oh. I’m fine. Really.” 

He _does_ look fine, and if she didn’t know him better, she would believe the lie. His jaw and shoulders are firmly set, and his face betrays nothing. But he _always_ looks fine. His face is always blank, composed to project cool confidence and hide all the emotions swirling around inside him, emotions he had such a hard time expressing. Then she gets a better look at his hands. They are clenched so tightly they’ve gone pure white, muscles and tendons standing out, and they’re shaking. 

She pauses, trying to think of what to say. He might not want to talk about this right now, but judging from how badly his hands are shaking, he’s definitely not fine. But she needs to be careful for Brooke to let his guard down and let her in. She has to be calm, be gentle, take the strides toward him and then let him take the baby steps toward her. 

“You know you don’t have to do that with me,” she tells him quietly.

“Do what?” he asks.

“Pretend you’re fine when you’re not. Put up your walls and hide. You can let me in. You don’t have to hide with me. Not ever.” 

“I kn--I’m sorry,” he whispers and looks away from her, lapsing into silence. 

_So that’s it then? I hand him an engraved invitation to tell me his problems and I get an apology for-- what, exactly? Hiding his feelings? And then nothing? Can’t he ever just say what he’s feeling?_

She’s contemplating whether she should say something else when his shoulders heave. 

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, only this time it’s painful and thick, and she realizes he’s sobbing. Sobbing in a way she has never seen, more vulnerable and emotional than he has ever let himself be. _Oh shit._

She takes one of his hands and rubs her thumb over it, trying to soothe out some of his tension. She struggles to figure out what she should do as his body trembles with sobs. She’s seen him anxious and stressed, sure, but never like this. Never this broken, without his usual grace and poise, not even his blank mask in place. Eventually she does what she would want: she wraps her arms around him, pulls his head down to rest on her shoulder, and holds him while he lets it all out. 

She whispers calming words to him and rubs his back while he cries. Finally, the tears slow enough for Brooke to talk in a hoarse, heavy voice. 

“I’m okay with everything. I really am. I’m not mad or anything, and I’ve been completely fine, honestly. I just...I really wanted it. But I wasn’t enough. I’m never enough,” he chokes out, removing his head from Vanessa’s shoulder to face her, but not meeting her eyes. 

“Don’t say that. You are enough,” she tells him. She really wants him to just look her in the eyes, but that had always been hard for him in normal circumstances and is probably impossible now with how upset he is.

“I’m not. I thought I did everything I could, but I should have done more. It wasn’t enough. I failed. And now it’s just… I’m kind of afraid of what’s gonna happen after the tour. Like, what if no one cares about me anymore because I didn’t win? And I know I had a really good shot at winning and I didn’t and now everyone’s gonna think I’m a failure, and I let so many people down and I just--what if I don’t matter anymore? What if I--”

“Baby, stop. It’s okay. Just breathe,” she cuts him off soothingly. Brooke is beginning to hyperventilate now, breath coming in shallow gasps, and she knows she has to do something before he gets worse. She’s helped him through a panic attack before and she has no desire to see him suffer like that again. She rubs his back again and plows on, hoping her voice will calm him.

“How many times do I have to tell you, hoe? Stop being so hard on yourself! You should have seen yourself up there. Bitch, that shoe reveal? I gagged. I still don’t know how you pulled that off. That was some straight-up magician shit. Ariel lost her damn mind. You had Miss Scarlet pissing herself the whole time. You were amazing, and more than enough.” She sees him start to breathe slower and searches for the right words to get him fully calm. “Brooke, people love you. _I_ love you. No one thinks you’re a failure. You made it all the way to the end, and you didn’t let anyone down, okay? You did such a great job, week after week, and people know that. Whether or not you have the crown, you’re still a winner in my book.” 

It does the trick. His breathing is back to normal and his hands are relaxed, though a little sweaty. She can see his mind starting to slow, the self-doubt and anxiety dissolving as he focuses on her instead of the voices in his head. 

“Thank you. Vanessa, you...you always know what to say. I’m sorry for dumping all this on you. You’re sick, I shouldn’t be making you deal with my problems,” he sniffs, wiping the remaining tears away. 

“Stop that,” she orders. “I’m barely even sick anymore. I asked you how you were doing because I wanted to know. Don’t feel guilty for having emotions and telling me about them, okay? And enough with the apologies, Mary.”

“Sorry,” he says sheepishly and blushes. Vanessa’s lost count, but she thinks that makes four _I’m sorry’s_ in barely ten minutes, and she’s pretty sure that’s a new record. 

He’s quiet for a few seconds, and then he smiles. “You know what, I am a winner. I got you out of all this, and whatever ends up happening between us, I got to be in a relationship with you and be your friend, and that makes me a winner, baby. You’re a better prize than anything.”

“You corny-ass Canadian,” she says, trying to ignore the tears starting to spring in her eyes. She thinks of the _I love you_ she had slipped in while she comforted him, and how much she meant it. She thinks of joy he gives her, the sweetness of such a strong, confident person trusting her enough to share his feelings and break down in front of her. She thinks of the beauty of watching him dance, expressing himself in a way he can’t with words, of his strong arms around her in bed, even his nasty-ass feet brushing against her. He could be enough. He _is_ enough. 

She stretches up from her position on the couch to plant a gentle kiss on his forehead. “You are enough, baby,” she whispers, and she has never meant it more.


End file.
